


Sworn Shield

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 12 days of Jonsa, Angst, Bodyguard, Dirty Talk, F/M, PTSD, The Starks are half-arryn, Unbeta'd, Winter Kingdom AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Jon Whitewolf comes back from the front lines following the death of his cousin, Robb Stark, Crown Prince of the North, and is tasked with being the Sworn Shield to Sansa Stark, the new heir to the throne. At first, Jon is unsure of whether his sheltered, ladylike cousin is fit to be the next monarch of the Winter Kingdom. After all, their country has been fighting off the Targaryen invaders for centuries, and Sansa is no warrior. As it turns out, his new future queen has a lot of surprises in store for him.





	Sworn Shield

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this is my new AU obsession that I like to call the Winter Kingdom-- one where half of Westeros comprised of the North, Vale, and Trident has been resisting Targ rule for 300 years. 
> 
> For the 12 Days of Shipping event.

Jon Whitewolf turns over in his bed. It’s warm and soft, the mattress and linens fresh and new. With this new assignment, Queen Catelyn decided that he simply must be with the princess every possible second, including sleeping outside her bedchamber door. Sansa had a new bed made for him and installed in her solar so he could do so in comfort. Sweet of her, of course, and Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s a wasted effort. He’s gotten fairly used to sleeping in tents, in the open air.

And even if he hadn’t, he can’t sleep. He won’t.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it again. Sees Robb: silent, defiant, angrily swinging his blade at every enemy soldier as The Mountain draws ever closer. They knew they were fighting a losing battle. They knew they were about to die. He can practically feel his cousin’s back against his as they fought together, prepared to die together, like brothers.

He can see that monster’s gauntlet as it grabbed and held Robb’s blade. They said The Mountain was once almost a man. A man of a cruel, beastly, brutish nature and a towering stature, but a man. King Rhaegar, in his madness and lust for power, had some vile sorcerer of his do things to Gregor Clegane that stripped away whatever humanity he had and replace it with unnatural strength and endurance. Some call him the Mountain that Rides, others called him The King’s Giant.

Jon can still feel how Clegane swatted him aside like a fly when he tried to save Robb. How the monster lifted his best friend into the air - first by the blade, then by the skull. How he crushed Robb’s head, helmet and all, between his fists like a quail’s egg. The way Robb’s legs kicked in mid-air for a couple of seconds…

Jon had welcomed his oncoming death in that moment. He wanted to die with his prince, his cousin, his brother in all but name.

But then Randyll Tarly rode up, screaming at Clegane to stop before he crushed Jon. The monster obeyed automatically, stepping back. It was said that was another of the strange spells Rhaegar’s warlock put on him — perfect obedience to his commanders.

“No one touch the other one!” Ser Addam Marbrand barked. “That’s the king’s son!”

Oh, how Jon wishes that were true in a different way. His Uncle Eddard, a man who was everything a king ought to be, had brought Jon up with Mother as if Jon were one of his own. Growing up, Jon would fantasize about being Robb’s twin in truth as well as practice. True, they didn’t look much alike — ironically, the one with the Stark name inherited the Tully looks of his queenly mother, while Jon, sired by a Targaryen, had the long, dark, solemn looks of a King of Winter. Eddard V Arryn Stark, King of Winter, is the only father Jon has ever wanted or known.

But he’s not that king’s son. If he were, he’d be as dead as Robb now. Instead, his sire was that tyrannical monster from the South that raped his mother. It was always his great shame, his cruelest circumstance. A Targaryen is everything he’s never wanted to be. All he ever wanted from life was to defend the Winter Realms from the reptilian invaders that had been slaughtering their people and trying to conquer them for three centuries. It was what helped propel him into battle, despite his mother’s tearful protests. He’d alway been ready to die if it meant doing so for the North, against their enemies.

He didn’t get that. Instead, most of the Targaryen soldiers suddenly backed away. Addam Marbrand rode towards him and dismounted. “Prince Jon, at long last, you can be reunited with your true family. I am here to take you home.”

Jon had stood stock-still for a moment. There was silence, hesitance from the enemy. Enough for his instincts to kick in. He curled two fingers between his lips and whistled. In seconds, the two wolves, Grey Wind and Ghost, charged in, ripping out a half dozen Targaryen throats before pouncing on The Mountain, pinning him to the ground.

He’d intended to go out fighting. To force the enemy to kill him. He chopped off the very hand Marbrand had extended to him. The heir to Ashemark went into spasms, but shouted himself hoarse for his men not to kill Jon so as not to incur the king’s wrath.

Jon wanted to force them, but it seemed the Stark army had other ideas. A section of troops descended upon them. Jon was knocked unconscious and woke up days later in a chamber in Raventree Hall.

Not only had the bastards robbed him of dying with Robb, but word came from Winterfell that he was to be pulled from the battlefield entirely. Ser Harrold Hardyng, of all people, would assume his command.

So here he is, in a warm feather bed while Robb’s bones rot in the family Crypts beneath the castle.

When Jon arrived home, he prepared to rail against his mother, certain she was behind this. Lady Whitewolf, as she was now known, had only two fears in this world: her son dying, and her son being taken by his father. Both of those things nearly happened. It did not take a genius to guess who was responsible for him being stripped of his command. He dismounted in Winterfell’s courtyard and charged toward the waiting Lyanna Stark. “HOW COULD YOU?!”

But, of all people, Queen Catelyn had stepped forward, as refined as ever. “If you are going to rail and stamp your feet like a child at someone, Nephew, it should be me. I was the one who proposed and pushed for you to be reassigned, not Lyanna.”

Despite his shock, Jon believed this at once. Catelyn Tully would not lie simply to defend Lyanna. While the two women never hated each other, they were never friends, either. Lyanna saw Catelyn as a foreign, stiff interloper. Catelyn considered Lyanna spoiled and unprincipled. The two of them mostly got along for the sake of Ned and his sons, though they had established an undercurrent of begrudging respect. It was not enough for either of them to want to stick their neck out for the other, unless it was in service of the truth.

If Catelyn Tully claimed responsibility, it was only because honor dictated that she must.

But why? Why would his aunt have him pulled from the very same battlefield that her own beloved son died on? Sure, the queen never wanted Jon dead or anything, but she’d have no reason to interfere with his duty to keep him out of harm’s way when her own child fell.

Once he regained his ability to speak, he could only ask, “Why?”

Uncle Eddard stepped forward. “We have need of you here.”

Then he stepped aside and cleared his throat.

Sansa stepped forward, eyes red from tears, but otherwise remarkably elegant and self-contained. It was a bit startling to see her, actually. While Robb had gone back to court a few times since they left for the battlefield two years ago, Jon had stayed amidst the camp. He only visited home once when Mother fell seriously ill. But by the time he got home, the fever had broken and Lyanna was almost completely recovered. He only ended up staying for a day, and it had been on that day that Sansa had been visiting White Harbour. It was of course logical that she would grow in this time, but he’d not been prepared for just how much. She’d been a child when he left. Now she was as tall as he was, willowy, long-necked, with a woman’s curves. And her eyes.

Her eyes — a deep Tully blue like her mother’s, like Robb’s — had been so bright and uplifted when he last saw her. They used to sparkle with delight so easily - over a song, some small accomplishment like a newly completed needlework project, or even a particularly pretty flower. He remembers her at one-and-ten looking out at a new morning’s frost, coating the trees of the godswood with crystalline chill. She clapped her hands and declared that it was surely enchanted. But that twinkle was gone. Instead, her eyes had a haunted, vulnerable look to them. Beautiful, but utterly tragic.

Jon’s gaze went from her eyes to her chest. Specifically, the white-gold and silver chain of interlocking wolves and falcons that hung from her delicate shoulders.

Robb had left it behind when they marched to the front lines. Practically, of course, there was no place for it on the battlefield. If he did wear it over his breastplate or surcoat, it would likely get broken or lost or stolen. But he was also simply glad to have an excuse not to wear it. He donned it at grand court banquets and ceremonies because it made his mother happy. But he also said it made him feel like a woman to walk around in such a ‘bauble’, as he called it.

Fair enough; the Heir’s Chain, with its interwoven metals, its exquisitely rendered wolf-and-falcon links, and the tiny pearls and blue topaz chips that made for the eyes of the wolves and falcons respectively did look rather feminine. When the Three Winter Realms united against the Targaryen invaders years ago, sealed by the marriage between the boy-king Ronnel of the Vale and Princess Serena Stark, daughter of King Torrhen, Sharra Arryn, Dowager Queen of the Vale commissioned the chain, intending it to be worn by her first grandson, and for all crown princes for generations to come. And it had.

Until now.

Jon saw the chain and panicked. “Bran? What happened to Bran? What happened to Rickon?!”

“We’re well!” Bran called out, wheeling forward in the push-chair Maester Luwin had made him a year prior, after his fall. Rickon sat on his big brother’s knee. Both appeared to be in perfectly good health.

Jon looked back at the King and Queen. “I don’t understand.”

“These are difficult times, Jon,” Uncle Eddard said, the hollow tone of his voice utterly heartbreaking. “Bran will never be able to have children, and Rickon is barely out of the nursery. If anything happens to me, the Winter Realms must have a ruler who is capable and prepared.”

Jon looked at Sansa, stunned. “But she’s—” He stops when he sees the look on her face.

“A girl, yes, but a smart and dutiful one,” Uncle Eddard said, “Hells, by her tenth year she was already surpassing you and Robb in the schoolroom.”

“A woman can rule just as wisely as a man,” Queen Catelyn stated firmly, “It’s worked out perfectly fine for the Dornish, and they’ve been fending off the Targaryens as long as we have with a fraction of the numbers. It was a Princess of theirs who confronted and defied the Targaryens when they first arrived, and under her reign that the first of their dragons fell to a Dornish holdfast. The Mormonts have done quite well for themselves—”

“—But the Mormonts—!” He glanced over at his mother, cringing a bit. He spied Arya over the queen’s shoulder and pointed. “Well, they’re like Arya! Like Mother! We’re a nation at war! Forged amidst war! Sansa is—”

“Enough!” King Eddard almost never raised his voice, but he does now. “It is my rule as king, as your king, young man. The queen and I have made our decision that Sansa shall succeed me upon my death. Furthermore, we have decided that you are to become her Sworn Shield. You will be by her side at every hour, and guard her life with yours until the day she sees fit to release you from her service. Do you understand me, Jon Whitewolf?”

“Her service?” Usually royal shields were sworn to the king.

“Her service, Nephew. I order–”

“—No!”

There was a ripple of gasps through the yard. Sansa, gentle ladylike Sansa, had always been the perfect, obedient daughter. Never a toe out of line. Only ever raising her voice when fighting with her wayward sister, and then always ceasing to upon command from an elder. Even Bran, his mother’s favorite and notoriously sweet, had his rebellions — climbing the walls of Winterfell against his mother’s orders is how he ended up in the chair — and some tantrums. Not Sansa. Sometimes, she might plead, but upon a second ‘No’, the most she’d do was retire to her chambers in disappointment.

Indeed, no one looks as surprised as Sansa herself to have heard her defy her father — and in public! Even Arya refrained from that most of the time. The new Crown Princess flushes as red as her hair.

King Eddard doesn’t even look angry, the way he would if it were literally anyone else. Jon’s uncle never raged at people, but he had a certain cold look that quietly demanded deference and surrender. He’d been wearing it seconds earlier when he told Jon to stop talking. But now, he just looks stunned.

“Father, I just… Please don’t order Jon to do this. If he’s to be my shield, I’d rather have it be by choice. If he doesn’t want to do this, he shouldn’t have to. Especially if he is against my new position. It isn’t right.” She stiffened slightly, standing at her full height as she said this. “We both deserve better.”

Jon looked at Sansa curiously. He’d never seen this from her before. Sure, Sansa could be haughty, especially when she was younger. Proud in her own childish, vain way. But she was never assertive.

It’s why Jon found her promotion so absurd. Not just because she was a woman, but because she was so pliant. She’d mastered court etiquette at age three and named her pet direwolf Lady, for pity’s sake!

The animal lived up to its name, too. Lady was the size of a horse and had four inch fangs, but Sansa had trained her to fetch parcels and dip her snout in a water bowl after every meal to wash the food from her jaws. The thing even did its own little wolf version of a curtsy when it entered a room or was greeted — lowering her massive head gently and pushing a single, giant paw forward in a way that could somehow only be described as dainty. And the mistress of this animal was supposed to lead them against the Targaryen invaders someday? The one who makes wolves into curtsying lapdogs?

But that moment made Jon start to reconsider this. She did make her direwolf into a lapdog. Thus far, Lady was the one entity that Sansa had been given charge of in her entire life. She made a creature —born and bred to hunt and slaughter wild animals amidst endless winter winds, a natural predator of the highest order— into a giant, furry ball of manners.

When he thought about it, that was actually a point that spoke well of her potential as a leader.

Jon had been ready to miserably drop to his knees at his king’s order and swear himself to a future leader he didn’t believe in. But then she stood up for him. Told her father, her king, ‘No.’

And the king didn’t argue! He observed his daughter for a second, then stepped back. “Very well. I won’t order this of you, Nephew. But know that even if you refuse, that does not mean I will be sending you back to the front. After what happened, it’s clear you’re too valuable to allow you to fall into enemy hands. You may be granted a nearby holdfast if you wish. You can be given a place in the palace guard, the City Watch, the law-keepers, or even The Wall if you so desire. But you will not return to the front lines again. You have your choices. Make one.”

Jon looked at Sansa, with her hands folded demurely. But she held her head high. Not as she once may have done as a child, which always looked more like she had her nose in the air. No, she just met his eyes with a somewhat neutral gaze. It was clear that his refusal would not cause her grievous injury. He was under no obligation. He couldn’t hurt her.

But he could protect her. He failed to protect Robb, but he might protect her.

He sunk to one knee, laid his blade at her feet, and made his vows.

Surely he made the right decision, surely. He wants to believe that. He wants to believe that he should be in this warm, soft bed within the hallowed halls of Winterfell while Robb rots in a crypt. While other men — men who fought with him, under him, saved his life, trusted him with their lives— died hundreds of miles away. Slaughtered by the armies of his father.

Given that his command was given to Harry Hardyng, who couldn’t go a day without dropping his breeches and sticking his cock in someone, more of them would die than if Jon were there.

He tosses and turns.

 _Well, what exactly were you supposed to do?_  He asks himself.  _Uncle Ned would not send you back to the front. Even if you ran back, you wouldn’t have your command anyways, and the moment anyone found out who you were, you’d probably be dragged back here. It’s not like you can just go back there. It was either this or some other cushy little post. A safe, guarded little occupation._

 _The Wall was offered_ , says a nasty little voice in the back of his mind. _That would have put you right back into the mud._

The Watch was once a proud institution of warriors, tasked with guarding not just the North, but all the realms of men from the terrors that lay beyond. It had been the famed Watchers on the Wall who had fought off The Others during the Long Night and saved mankind from an army of the dead.

But the Others are long-gone. The supposed greatness of that purpose —to watch out for long-extinct monsters your nurse told you about before bed and fend off the occasional disorganized band of pathetic wildling savages— hardly seemed so grand when at the other border, there were dragons and lunatics wielding them. Sure, the dragons had died out around a century ago, but the Targaryens and their forces carry on and manage to slaughter people en masse regardless. That’s the war, the threat, that actually exists now. These days, the Wall was just a convenient place to send criminals, orphans, runaways, deserters, the occasional troublesome younger son, and men who were too craven to fight in the real war.

As guilty as Jon feels for his current comforts, he’d still rather be doing something actually useful to serve the kingdom. There’s still more honor in being pampered and relevant than freezing and pointless.

 _And how much are you really helping here, eh?_ That nasty little voice asks him.  _There’s hundreds of armed men at court to protect Sansa. Anyone could do this. It’s an invented post meant to keep you from Rhaegar’s grasp. Robb didn’t have a personal, sworn shield. Your Uncle Brandon didn’t have one when he was alive. But you’re devoting everything to keeping her safe when there are already countless people around with that exact same task. What is the point of you having this special little office, exactly? Because you’re so devoted to her especially? You’re not even sure Sansa should be the new heir!_

There is, actually, a reason why it’s him. A stroke of genius on Queen Catelyn’s part, really. He’s not stupid. Everyone knows what happened on the battlefield. He’d been slaughtering Targaryen men left and right. He maimed one of their best generals. And the very man he’d dismembered was ordering those men not to harm him in a panic. Apparently, no matter what he did, it was nothing to what his father would do if his son was hurt. Battle-hardened soldiers, veterans of combat, were afraid to touch him.

So if the last person between a Targaryen soldier and the Crown Princess of Winter was the one person no servant of the Iron Throne dared touch… Well, it made any would-be kidnapping, assassination, or rape that much more complicated for the would-be assailants, didn’t it?

He’s here not for who he is, but who his father is.

Jon knows the stories. They all do. The way the Targaryens see themselves. The Blood of Old Valyria. Dragons of the Freehold. Rightful rulers of whatever domain they desire. More than men. Superior beings. It’s why for the most part, they’d bred with one another, to keep their bloodline ‘pure.’ It had eventually led to infertility, madness, and their numbers dwindling to the point where they had to marry ‘lesser’ beings. But apparently even mutts had value beyond imagining. The limited pool of Targaryens probably made the “dragonblood”, however diluted, that much more valuable.

And because they were rare, greater beings, because they believed that they had a right to whatever they wanted, well…

It’s how Jon came into being in the first place.

He’s never met his father, thank the gods. Whether he ever wishes to is something he goes back and forth on. Even the thought of Rhaegar Targaryen disgusts him. And every reminder that he is connected to such a man is like a blade to the gut. Just hearing Addam Marbrand refer to him Rhaegar’s son, call him ‘Prince’, practically sent Jon into a frenzy. But hearing it from the man himself? Seeing the face of his mother’s tormenter, possibly spotting a resemblance between father and son? The thought makes bile rise from his stomach.

On the other, if he got to kill the man… That might make it worth it. Maybe.

But Jon doesn’t so much want revenge as he just wants them gone. Gone from his life, his mind, his thoughts.

Sometimes, he fantasizes about a world in which the Targaryens had been overthrown and destroyed. He’s had vivid dreams of it, in fact. In them, House Targaryen was destroyed by not just the Winter Kingdom, but their own bannermen after his Mother was abducted.

They aren’t exactly good dreams. Because in them, Mother dies giving birth to him. And for whatever reason, the Winter Kingdom doesn’t exist and the North, Vale, and Trident are ruled by the Iron Throne even after the Targaryens are gone. And Robb still dies. Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen are dead. The Others have returned and he’s at the Wall, desperately trying to get Westeros to come together and fight.

But also in them, Uncle Ned took him home and claimed him as his bastard son. And the Jon in those dreams — Jon Snow, not Jon Whitewolf — at the very least doesn’t know that he’s the product of a monster. He believes he’s Ned Stark’s son.

He’d give anything to be free of House Targaryen. Anything.

_Jon Snow is actually fighting in the war that matters, too. Not huddled in a feather bed._

He tells his own mind to shut up. It counters that the fact that he’s arguing with himself like a madman is proof enough that he’s his father’s son.

He tries to ignore the voice.  _I am doing something that matters. I’d be a dragon seed even if I were out in the fields now. Even Jon Snow is one, even if he doesn’t know it. At least I am taking this and using it to a good end. Uncle Ned is right, the Winter Kingdom needs security. It needs an heir who can rule. Sansa needs to be kept from harm, and being who I am makes me the best man to protect her from our enemies._

_…So who will be the man to protect her from you?_

Jon turns over again, teeth clenched.

That’s the other thing, though. The unexpected issue that has made this assignment more complicated than he ever imagined.

He’s not completely convinced that Sansa is the best person to wear the crown of winter next. Granted, he’s warmed to the idea quite a bit since he first found out.

In some ways, Sansa has truly surprised and impressed him. She had always excelled at their lessons– in everything but figures, that is, which she could never quite keep track of. Despite being three years younger than Robb and Jon, she started catching up to them just a few months after formally entering the schoolroom at age five. She’d arrived to Maester Luwin already able to read, her difficulties with writing being confined to the fact that her hands were not quite large or practiced enough to comfortably use a quill for too long, and her nervousness over getting ink on her dress. After a year and a half she was at the same level as her brother and cousin in everything but mathematics and High Valyrian. By age ten she was surpassing them in almost everything, especially history and letters.

But she was still just a schoolgirl. While Jon and Robb were being schooled in military tactics, she was being taught household management. While they were in the yard with their practice blades preparing for battle, she was sewing and playing the high harp. While they were groomed for command, she was coached in how to charm and entertain. They were taught how to give orders, she was taught to obey them. Of course she excelled. Sansa was a perfect lady, impeccably trained for overseeing a castle, organizing parties, birthing and raising children, and pleasing a husband.

Not unworthy skills by any means, but hardly ones that fit a wartime monarch.

Sansa is being coached, of course, in some of the things she missed. Battle strategy and tactics, for instance. Luwin coaches her on it through war games played out on a map table. She began to improve exponentially once she recontextualized the whole practice as organizing the household staff and resources or a state visit. And Jon has to admit, upon observing her, those things have far more in common than he ever realized. But she still hesitated, still blanched whenever the finer details of the actual violence involved came up. Luwin would counter with a maneuver and announce that he’d slaughtered X amount of Sansa’s men, and she’d go white, then be so distracted and consumed with self doubt that she’d bungle the rest of the game.

These were not guests, they were soldiers. There would be blood, every time. Death, every time. Sure, an improperly managed household could end in people starving or freezing to death, or being crushed by a poorly-maintained structure. A poorly planned seating chart could even result in someone getting poisoned or even open combat breaking out between guests over a perceived slight or old grudge. And that was significant, because it was more often than not incidents in the banquet hall that led to combat on the battlefield in the first place. But those were still extreme cases.

In battle, that is the norm. Even the most prepared and battle-ready commander and army could be trounced by a storm, or an illness spreading through the camp, or treason. And a proper commander has to be ever-ready, ever-confident, and ever-decisive in order to keep things intact and counter all attacks and misfortunes.

Sansa is used to getting everything perfect. As long as she made sure to make all the right stitches, her thread wouldn’t tangle and her new gown would always come out exactly as it should. And no one would die. But this wasn’t that. You couldn’t be perfect in war. You couldn’t just follow the rules. You couldn’t stop death or misfortune.

When Luwin is more vague in his maneuvers, narrating a gesture as ‘neutralizing your third battalion’ instead of ‘took out five hundred of your men’, or just said things like, ‘I’ve gained the high ground’ without following it up with ‘-and I descend upon your entire center flank, killing them all’, she stays focused. She even comes up with some truly clever counters. She’s capable of triumph.

But the thing is, a commander — even one guiding the battle from a far off holdfast, tent, or fortress — must be able to hear that men are dead and still keep going. They have to be able to know about the suffering and still go forward as if nothing is amiss, even if they’re altering their strategy, the mindset has to be the same. Sansa thus far gets flustered by fake violence. That does not bode well for how she’d fare facing the real thing. The actual blood and screams. It was not only a matter of being able to think strategically, but how it would affect morale if she were seen as shaken and scattered. If she couldn’t project an image of security and solid leadership, her soldiers would lose confidence in her, fear would increase, disloyalty and conflict would arise among her men, and people would be too distracted and discouraged to think clearly enough themselves.

It’s already a point against her that she has the personal combat skills of a child. Sansa doesn’t even care much for riding because of how sweaty and sore it can get her. She likes being on her feet, Jon’s noticed, always taking long walks through the grounds and castle. She even enjoyed hiking through the woods and nearby hills. And she absolutely adored dancing — even the fast ones that got her hot and sweaty, she didn’t seem to mind. And her dancing lessons definitely have given her a fine sense of balance — one of the most overlooked, under-appreciated, and vital qualities any fighter can have. But her instincts were tuned more towards grace and rhythm than force or defense. Dancing was an exercise in cooperation. Fighting is the literal opposite. She has plenty of energy, but she has the muscles of a woman, the coordination of someone used to having the person before them lift them into the air, not stab them in the chest.

She’s ventured into the practice yard reluctantly many times, and it’s always tragic. She actually catches on to defensive maneuvers decently. But when it comes to countering an attack instead of blocking it, or even attacking herself, she is a mess. It’s not just a fear of getting hurt, even. That was normal, that was easy, that was basically every person when they first learned to fight. But she also just didn’t want to attack. Even when she got angry, even when she was knocked to the ground and got back and it was clear from the look on her face that she’d clearly like to return with a blow of her own, she always hesitated just before she brought the blade down — just enough time to be caught in the gut and knocked down again.

Armies didn’t necessarily demand a commander fighting in the vanguard with them. In fact, some preferred the opposite because it meant they didn’t have to constantly look over their shoulders to make sure that the man responsible for the actual battle plan wasn’t about to have his skull cracked open. However, they did expect a commander that could hold their own in the fray if they had to. That the man ordering them into danger could handle danger himself.

Or herself, as the case may be.

Watching Sansa with a blade is just sad. Embarrassing. And the worst part is that despite clearly hating every moment, she keeps trying. Every time she tries, she fails. Every time she fails, her confidence goes down, and so do her instincts. She becomes more afraid to act, more prone to hesitation, and takes more nosedives into the dirt. And so on and so forth. A vicious cycle of regression.

Sansa is used to being the girl with the exquisite stitches, the swanlike dance steps, the melodic voice, and the flawless curtsy. Even when it came to figures, she eventually found tricks with which to compensate. She is not used to failure. She is not used to failures being a determining factor in whether scores of people live or die. She’s not used to hurting people. She’s not used to viewing people as purely enemies. She wants to believe that no one should be hurt.

So she is constantly falling face first into the mud. At this point, not even Arya laughs at her anymore. Who could possibly find it funny? All Jon wants to do when he watches her in the yard is wrap her up in a warm blanket, wipe the grime from her face, give her some warm milk by the fire, and tell her everything will be alright. And he knows for a fact that he’s not the only one.

And that’s the last thing you need in warfare.

The Winter Kingdom’s very existence is predicated on repelling the Targaryen invaders. They have been at war for as long as they’ve been a Kingdom. Three centuries.

She has to hurt people, has to get people killed, has to taste the blood if she is to truly lead. She must. There is only so much time before Luwin will have to stop sugarcoating what those figures on the map represent. He keeps doing that, and it does her no favors.

But, at the same time… Jon does see what the King and Queen see now. Sansa’s complete lack of martial instincts are all the more agonizing because if not for that… she would be brilliant.

The more Jon observes her, the more he realizes all the things that surely a monarch must concern themselves with… things that Robb never showed the slightest aptitude or interest in.

Robb was breathtaking in the battlefield, both physically and tactically. He wore his armor like a second skin. He always had a thousand ideas, and it never took him longer than a second to pick out the good ones from the bad ones… And, usually, an hour later, he turned his bad ideas into good ones. He utterly baffled the enemy time and time again. He thought about what the enemy might think. All the things that ‘The Young Wolf’ would certainly never do, because it would be utterly mad and stupid. Then he’d take those mad, stupid things no rational General would ever try, figure out a way to do them that wasn’t mad or stupid, and do that exact thing. He broke all the right rules in all the right places.

Because he was fearless. And determined.

It wasn’t that Robb was bloodthirsty or heartless - far from it. But he never had any doubts about what had to be done, and what it would cost to do them. He did not hesitate to slay an enemy. He went forward, strong and certain. Even with his rare failures and mistakes, he did not waste time with doubt. He just took whatever lesson could be gleaned. People would die. Failures would happen.

He was a warrior.

What Robb wasn’t was a steward, a diplomat, a care-taker, a mediator, adjudicator, a builder, or an innovator.

Many of Robb’s rare failures often involved something stupid like bungling a chance to gain his men safe passage through a neutral area by receiving an envoy with open steel in his lap. Or major portions of his army losing mobility because their boots wore through weeks ago and their feet were too frozen, broken, and infected to walk. Or being delayed because the local merchants refuse to sell goods to Robb’s men, forcing them to wait on shipment before they could move on. Robb’s tactical brilliance usually compensated, but…

He was impulsive, treated everything as a fight, and while he could convince men to hurtle towards a likely death very easily, Jon sometimes wonders if Robb could get the same men, or anyone, really, to do anything that didn’t involve a battle with the same ease.

If conflict arose among Robb’s soldiers, his response was to either have the two sides (as long as they were small in number) settle it with a wrestling match, or, if the conflict was large in scale, simply separate the two opposing parties. Nothing was ever really settled. Sure, any one of Robb’s men would sacrifice themselves for their prince in a minute. They’d embrace a hailstorm of flaming arrows with a grin if Robb Stark asked them to.

But it would snow in Dorne before they ever agreed to man a catapult or cover a right flank for their fellow soldier so-and-so, the prick. What same side?

So plans went south and ranks were broken because of some stupidity.

Jon has no idea whether or not Robb could have convinced his men to finally settle their differences and cooperate with one another, because Robb never tried. It was either wrestle or separate. Robb minded his own business. He didn’t care if so-and-so got along with such-and-such or why they might not.

He should have.

Jon hates thinking like this. He feels like he’s betraying Robb’s memory. But he watches Sansa, and he can’t help it. Sansa’s taxed with holding court and answering petitions in her father’s stead. He sees her settle and resolve conflicts that would have otherwise held up development or vital operations several times a day. The most wizened, red-faced, furious, implacable corn farmer will come in brandishing his scythe at the burliest, loudest, murderous dairyman, all over some issue that to Jon, seems without resolution because there is simply not enough of this or that, or the laws of nature dictate something that means nobody will get to be satisfied, or because the two furious men simply enjoy fighting with one another too much. A quarter hour later, Sansa will have the two striding out of the hall, apologizing to one another profusely, offering to buy the other a pint at the Wintertown tavern, their actual problem resolved. Turns out, there is enough of this or that to go around as long as you put it in the right place, or you can simply make more of it like this, or because drinking is simply more fun than getting stabbed after all.

And just the way Robb could make people want to fight and die for him, Sansa could easily make people want to give and help one another. Make sacrifices, not of blood, but of time, or wealth, or comfort, or pride, things that for whatever reason, many people seem more attached to than their own heads.

He sees her working with lords and dignitaries, making them blush and smile, convincing them that giving her what she wants is for their benefit, really. He’s seen her pick up on things he never noticed, figure out when someone was trying to trick her, or wasn’t being honest, then confront them in a gentle way that made them blush and feel ashamed of themselves. He’s seen her do this to the ambassador from Volantis and three representatives of the Iron Bank.

Robb looked at you and made you feel like the strongest, bravest man alive.

Sansa looked at you like you were a genuinely good person, honest, hard-working, and compassionate. And even if you knew yourself to be the laziest, nastiest, thieving drunk in the world, you didn’t want her to be wrong about that anymore. You resolved to become the person she wanted you to be.

He’s seen her presented with men guilty of hideous crimes. Bandits who grinned when they confessed to the houses they torched and women they raped. Then send them from her presence in a mess of shame and tears, begging to be gelded before they could hurt another maiden, to be given the hardest of forced labor for the rest of their lives so that they might repent before they died. Weeping for old mum to forgive them. He’s seen her do this twice.

Part of it was that she was very good at convincing anyone and everyone around her that they were smarter than her. As it turned out, you could get the very cleverest of people to tell you almost anything as long as they believed you’d never understand. It was an astonishingly effective strategy. Indeed, it took Jon a fortnight to stop falling for that exact trick himself.

She worked hard, too. Never wasting a minute. Uncle Ned had brought her onto the council in a minor advisory role, and as she sat, listened, and made the occasional query or suggestion, she’d be crafting tunics for their soldiers under the table. She showed a remarkable acuity in absorbing and interpreting whatever her father’s learned councilors were talking about, whether it was plans for a new dam, troop deployments, or the wool trade.

In a period of peace, Sansa could bring the Winter Kingdom to new heights.

But this is not a period of peace. Periods of peace are for other countries.

Sansa could be a wonderful ruler. But she may not be the right one.

Uncle Ned is very proud, but not as proud as he should be, in Jon’s opinion. Indeed, Jon suspects that he may be the only one who knows the full extent of her abilities, and that’s because he’s tasked with constant observation of her.

Well, not completely constant observation, of course. She is a woman, not a man. A princess, not a soldier. They can’t just jump naked into a lake together when they need a bath. They aren’t sharing a cramped tent together at night. Their day together starts early morning when she emerges from her bedchamber groomed and dressed, it ends in the evening when she leaves him in the solar in the evening to bathe, undress, let her hair down, and fall asleep.

There’s a very firm barrier between them.

 _And you’d just like to tear that door down, wouldn’t you?_ That nasty voice whispers.  _Tear down the door, tear the furs off her bed, tear—_

Jon bites his fist. He loathes himself. How could he? He’s supposed to be protecting her. Guarding her! Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn trust him. She trusts him!

 _Maybe that’s why you let Robb die,_  that cruel, sick little voice says to him,  _make it that much easier for you to prey on his sweet sister…_

_I didn’t let Robb die, I didn’t. The Mountain was unstoppable._

_The wolves stopped him well enough. You could have whistled for them sooner. You could have whistled for them in time and Robb would still be alive. But you didn’t. You didn’t want to. You were jealous of him. You wanted to be him. He had everything, was everything you ever wanted or wanted to be. The brilliant son of Valiant King Ned and Good Queen Cat. Not the rape-spawn of a lunatic. You didn’t whistle in time. You should have. You could have. So easily. You didn’t. Now he’s dead and Sansa’s just beyond that door._

_It’s not true. It isn’t. Everything was so fast. There were so many of them. So many…_

As much as he admires his uncle, his aunt, his mother, his cousin, and all the people who work hard to keep the kingdom together, sometimes he watches them at it and wants to scream. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHAT DOES IT MATTER THAT THE PRICE OF ROSES HAS GONE UP? HOW CAN ANYONE CARE SO MUCH ABOUT ARCHWAYS? MEN ARE DYING RIGHT NOW! ROBB IS DEAD! AND THERE ARE SO MANY OF THEM OUT THERE, SO MANY! COMING AT OUR MEN, OUR BOYS WITH BLADES! I DOUBT THEY CARE WHETHER THE STITCHES ON THEIR TUNIC ARE STRAIGHT WHEN THERE IS AN ARROW FLYING TOWARDS THEIR CHEST!”

And he knows there are answers, even if those answers are unsatisfying. Properly stitched clothing lasts longer, fits better. Soldiers stay warmer, longer, and move better. And of course that matters. The men fighting and dying for the kingdom need the best clothing and armor we can give them. Roses make rosewater, which is important for keeping wounds clean and preventing inflammation. If the price of it goes up, we have less disinfectant with which to keep our men’s wounds from becoming gangrenous. Yes, these things are limp, yet important. If archways are not properly constructed, entire buildings could collapse, killing people and depriving others of shelter they need.

But he still wants to yell sometimes. Especially at Uncle Ned. The man who marched south to get Mother back. He should know better. He should know better.

He does know better, that’s why he’s doing all this.

But none of it saved Robb. None of it saved Robb.

And they’ve brought him here. Not because he has much to contribute. Not because he deserves to be here. It’s not like he’s some storied veteran who has paid his dues. He was only out there for two years. He wasn't crippled and rendered incapable of fighting. He’s fine. He’s fine.

_He’s fine._

And he’s here, lying in a soft, warm feather bed, spending his days listening and watching smarter people, people who are capable of producing more than a pile of corpses, do things to make other peoples’ lives better. To keep their men as prepared and equipped as possible. And he’s just here, simply because of who his father is. He’s here to just watch and make sure Sansa is safe.

And he can’t even do that properly, because he can’t stop staring at her lips, her neck, her waist. And he thinks about how, at this moment, she’s just beyond a door — unbarred, in case an intruder comes through the window and Jon has to rush in. How she’s lying there, under those furs, probably wearing nothing but a linen shift, her hair all loose and flowing.

_Robb is gone, and you practically have her at your fingertips. There’s nothing to stop you, really. She loves you, trusts you. Her door is practically open. And she doesn’t see you as a threat. You could go in and tell her that you are having nightmares. Not entirely untrue, and she’d believe it. And she’d take you into her arms, probably pull your head to her chest. And if you touch her just right, she may even like it. Then you could probably have her. Why would Uncle Ned ever deny his precious girl? He thinks you’re such a good man, too. Like Robb. Charm them. It’s how your father got close to your mother, after all…_

Jon thrashes. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until the door opens. Sansa flies in, the linen skirts of her shift and folds of her silk dressing gown like wings. She hurries onto the bed and clutches his face. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?!”

Fisting the sheets and trying to maneuver himself to she can’t see what’s going on between his legs, Jon gasps. He leans away from her palms. “It’s… It’s nothing. I just had a bad dream.”

“Was… Was it Robb?”

His eyes narrow. “How did you—?”

Sansa shuts her eyes and leans back. “It’s almost every night. I have nightmares of him dying. You know, I was there when they brought his body back. I saw it. When they took him from the casket to be stored in the crypt. It was just a moment but… I saw his head.” She shudders. “And every night, I see it happen in a new way, every time. Crushed under a wagon wheel. Or the hoof of some giant horse. Hit with a war hammer or a morningstar. Smashed against a rock… I’m there every time, struggling and screaming but I can’t do anything. I can’t even close my eyes or look away because someone or something is forcing me to watch… But you… You were actually there. I can’t even imagine…”

“There wasn’t a hammer, or a rock,” Jon says, staring at his lap. “The Mountain… He didn’t need it. He just used his hands. Just… Just lifted him up like he was nothing, grabbed his head in both hands and…” He feels bile rush up his throat and swallows it.

“King Rhaegar put spell on The Mountain, right? To think that thing is out there… Oh gods…”

Jon clutches her shoulder and looks her in the eyes. “He will never hurt you, understand? It won’t happen again. I won’t let him.”

“But it will happen to someone else,” she sobs, “It could be happening right now, to some poor farm boy. Not a prince. Not a famous lord who will be remembered. No one will know his name but his poor old mother, or sweetheart, or sister, who will never see him again. No crypts to bury his bones in. There will be no songs for him. Just… crushed. And gone. Then another, and another. It’s like with every beat of my heart, I feel another poor brother or son die. Die without a song or a crypt or even his name written anywhere.”

He know exactly what she means.

“And I’m here, in bed.” He says sourly.

“You’re protecting me. And you at least fought. It’s more than I’ve done.”

“You’re keeping them fed and warm and armed.”

“No, I’m not. Officers, other soldiers, farmers, shepherds, messengers, carters, ministers… They’re doing all that. I’m just…”

“Helping.”

“And they’re still dying.” Sansa closes her eyes and leans toward him, wrapping her arms about his neck. “I miss him so much, Jon.”

“Me too,” he tells her, nuzzling the top of her head and blinking back tears.

They stay like that for a while. Then she says something odd.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She raises her head to meet his eyes. “I swear, I didn’t ask for this, Jon. I could never, ever replace him, I know it. I’m terrible. I know you see it. Every day, you see it. I’m such a coward. Robb went out fighting and I can’t even discuss theoretical death without completely losing my head. But I just can’t stop thinking about Robb, and all the men who could have been him, who he could have been. And every time I lift one of those stupid dull blades and I think I’m ready to finally act.. I look at Ser Rodrick or Jory and I suddenly see their heads, crushed like Robb’s and I just… I fail. I’ll never be able to protect our people. I can’t even keep my face out of the mud. And I know you see it. I see it in your eyes every day. Your frustration with me.”

“That’s not true,” he tells her, “You’re… You’re brilliant, Sansa. There’s a reason Uncle Ned made that change—”

“—Because Bran fell from the tower, that’s why. And because Rickon is a baby and Arya can’t focus. But it should be–”

Then she stops abruptly. Jon’s heart sinks.

“It should be who, Sansa? Who else is there?” Uncle Benjen joined the Watch.

“You.”

His blood starts to run cold. “No.”

“That’s what Father said to Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa says, shaking her head, “He says the Winter Lords won’t ever accept a half-Targaryen king. That if he even brought it up, you wouldn’t live to see another sunrise. I just… You’re a hero. Everyone knows it. You’re strong and brave and honorable and as Stark as any of us. You even look more like a Stark than most of us, except for Arya. You’ve spent the last two years killing Targaryen soldiers. You’ve never even met Rhaegar. And you’re nothing like him. You’re gentle, and kind and…” She looks into his eyes with a heartbreaking innocence, “…Pure.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, though. You’re nothing like those sick lunatics in King’s Landing.”

“You’re wrong,” he tells her, pulling away. “Your Father is right. The lords would never accept me, and they’d be right not to. I’m… I’m not what you think I am, Sansa. I’m sick.”

“That’s not true! Y—”

“—I think about fucking you.”

There’s silence for a while. She stays so still Jon isn’t even sure she’s breathing. He glares at her.  _Make her afraid. Make her understand._

“What?”

“I think. About. Fucking. You.” He repeats, getting angry for some reason. He wishes she would turn away in horror. Run away. Call for guards. Tell everyone. Have him hauled away in chains. Like she should. But she isn’t. “It’s the only thing I think about when I’m not thinking about the war or Robb or my father. It’s the only way I distract myself. Thinking about you. Fucking you.”

He feels that nasty little voice crawl out from its filthy little hole in the back of his mind, crawl down his neck and into his tongue. “I keep thinking about these awful things, of death and suffering and my father raping my mother and trying to steal me away. And the only thing that gives me relief from that is thinking about you. You think I look frustrated because I think you’re unfit? Sure, you’re a useless warrior thus far, and that bothers me, but you’re absolutely brilliant at everything else. No, the reason I look so frustrated around you all the time is because you’ll turn your head just so and your neck will arch and I just want to lick it from your collarbone to your ear. Or I see you face down in the mud and all I can think of is how you’d be much better off face down here.” He shakes the sheets for emphasis.

He leans forward. She doesn’t lean away and he just wishes she would stop looking at him with that baffled expression. What part of this doesn’t she understand? “Every night, I think about how your door in unbarred and how easily I could just go in there and take you. You know why I was shouting ‘Shut up!’ just now? It wasn’t a nightmare. I was trying to stop myself from thinking about going into your bedroom, talking my way into your bed and…”

He can’t even say it, he’s so disgusted with himself. Surely, surely this should be enough. Jon looks away in shame.

“…And what?”

The tone of her voice makes him look up. Because it’s clear that she knows exactly what that ‘what’ is. That’s not why she’s asking. She’s asking  _because she wants to hear him say it._ He just can’t imagine why.

“What do you think?!” He asks, voice slightly raised. “And basically every sick thing you can imagine. Tearing off your shift, sucking at your nipples, fingering your cunny until you beg for my cock, bending you over and pounding into you until we both lose consciousness.”

She stares at him for a couple of seconds. “…And that’s ‘every sick thing you can imagine’, is it?”

He feels his eyes nearly burst from their sockets. “WHAT?!”

“I’m a bit disappointed if every sick thing you can imagine only amounts to about five things, Jon.”

He gapes. This was definitely not what he expected. His loins stir. “They’re… They’re not. I just…” He trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Are you saying that if you were to tell me every sick thing you can imagine, we’d be here for much longer than appropriate?”

“…Maybe. Sansa…” He’s not sure of what he’s hearing. He searches her face. “Is this… Is this some sort of trick?”

“What sort of trick would that be, exactly?” She asks quietly.

“I’m not sure. An unkind one, certainly.” His eyes narrow. “You sound almost like you’re interested, but I know that can’t be right.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, blushing a bit.

Jon’s heart pounds. “What… What happened to you while I was away? You were so innocent.”

“I still am!” She insists. “Or, at least, I’m not guilty of anything, anyway. I’m still a maid, Jon. I’ve never so much as kissed a man. But I have thoughts. I have… feelings.”

Jon thinks of her at court, about how she flirts with various lordlings. She’s unpromised, and numerous lords of the realm see an opportunity there. Some of her suitors are quite handsome, too. Like Patrek Mallister and Willam Manderly. “…About me?”

“Yes, you.” Sansa grins. “I just thought you considered me nothing more than a spoiled child, so I never said anything. But I remember the first day you rode out to the front lines with Robb, in your armor and cloak. You looked so handsome. And you’re even more handsome now, with your scars and such.”

She reaches up and traces the marks around Jon’s eye. “I’ve been wanting to touch them since you returned.”

He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t feel this way. She’s Robb’s sister, after all. Uncle Eddard’s precious girl. The pride and joy of the Winter Kingdom. The greatest treasure in Winterfell. What right does he have to even yearn for her, let alone touch her?

“Jon?”

“Mmm?”

“Have you been with girls before?”

For some reason, for the first time in his life, he’s ashamed to answer, “Yes.” He tumbled a washerwoman when he was four-and-ten. It was a humiliating experience, as he spent in his pants almost instantly. The girl, Lyra, left disappointed. After that, he enlisted the services of a couple of whores so as not to repeat that ghastly performance, and engaged in some dalliances with the odd camp follower. Just a few short months ago, Jon would have puffed his chest out, confident in the knowledge that he had as much or more experience as any other young man his age.

But with Sansa, he’s suddenly not so proud. “I dallied with a few girls. No great love affairs.”

“So you know how it’s done, then?”

“Of course!”

“I don’t just mean the basic mechanics!” She snaps. “I mean…” She blushes in the moonlight and looks at him sideways. “I mean do you really know? I hear things, you know. About lads who are just in-out, in-out, spend. I don’t fancy that. I want a skilled lover.”

Since Lyra, he hasn’t had any complaints. But then, given the nature of his subsequent bedmates’ profession, he probably wouldn’t have. Jon’s heart stops.

“I… I have some skill.”

What is he even saying? He can’t do this! Sansa isn’t just some milkmaid or camp follower! She’s the Crown Princess of Winter.

“You sound unsure.”

“Every woman is different!” He’s defensive, heart sinking even as the words leave his mouth. He’ll never have her now, which is probably for the best, really. Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat would have him flayed alive if they knew. She’s supposed to marry some wealthy lordling and go to her wedding bed untouched. He’s supposed to be one of the people who make sure that happens.

To his shock, she responds to this with a smile. “That tells me more than you realize. So please, go on. Tell me what you’d do to me.”

Jon gapes a little. “Sansa, I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

He talks about suitors, lordlings, traditions, titles, and virtue. Sansa groans and gets to her feet.

“Of course,” she fumes, “Gods forbid I get to make a decision of my own.”

“Sansa—”

She spins around angrily. “Tell me, Jon, when people look at me, are they actually seeing me, or the crown I’m not even wearing yet? I give everything of myself to a role I never asked for. And are you honestly going to tell me Robb was a virgin?”

“Robb couldn’t conceive!”

“He could impregnate a thousand wenches with a thousand bastards and no one would care. I have the means to protect myself, so what does it matter?” Sansa shakes her head and turns away from him once more. “I can’t believe I even considered it. You don’t see me anymore than anyone else does. You just see the perfect princess. Or less than perfect, as the case is. Not fit to rule, not fit to bed, either.”

“That’s not it!” Jon insists. “I just don’t want to ruin your future!”

“It’s my future to ruin, Jon!” She spins around again, then stops and hugs herself. “No,” she suddenly says in a soft, far-off voice, “It isn’t, is it? My future is the kingdom’s future. It doesn’t belong to me. Nothing does. Not even my own flesh belongs to me. It’s property of the crown.”

She looks down and clutches her lower belly. “It comes down to this, doesn’t it? I’m to inherit the kingdom, but ultimately, it will still come down to this. So much has changed since Robb died. But not that. Never that.”

“Sansa…”

The princess bolts from the room to her bedchamber and bars the door behind her. Jon spends the rest of the night sitting outside it. She doesn’t even give him a proper greeting when she emerges the next morning in a russet velvet. She gives him no more than a nod. Breakfast is silent.

The Small Council convenes for its early morning meeting. As Uncle Ned and his advisors start assembling their documents, Sansa speaks up.

“I have a petition to make of the king,” she announces, “One I make as his heir and as his daughter.”

Everyone freezes and Jon stiffens. Uncle Ned looks at Sansa in shock. It’s not like her to be so outspoken. He surveys his daughter from the head of the table, hands folded atop the surface, and nods.

“You may make your request, My Dear.”

Sansa rises from her seat. “Father, it has been eight moons since my beloved brother Robb fell in battle. Upon news of his passing, you announced that you would defy centuries of tradition and elevate me to the position of heir to the throne, despite my sex. This was not an honor or duty I asked for, sought out, or ever even envisioned for myself. I was not raised to fulfill that office. Nor were my feelings on the matter sought out. Despite this, I have worked tirelessly to do my duty and rise to the responsibility. I’ve spent the last several months getting hurled into the mud while combat training so as to be a better future monarch. I devote my every waking hour to assisting you in your duties, assuming lofty responsibilities, and educating myself so that I might better fulfill them. And I flatter myself to say that I have more than risen to the occasion in many respects. Robb’s passing was a great blow to us all, but it was me who saw her whole life turned upside down. Everything I ever knew, expected, or hoped for out of life was gone. I mention this not because I wish to complain. But merely to lend context for the very things I want to ask of you.”

Uncle Ned’s face is inscrutable. But he does need to clear his throat before urging his daughter to continue.

“Your Grace, I am happy to give my life to you, the kingdom, and the crown. But there is one aspect of it I would like to determine for myself.” Sansa takes a deep breath and turns the full force of her burning blue gaze onto her father. “I want permission to choose my husband for myself.”

There are gasps and grumbles from the lords. The king’s mouth falls open.

“Darling, you know I’d never force you to—”

“—You’d never force me to wed a man I detested, yes. I understand that, Father. I never thought you would. But there’s a difference between that and allowing me a full choice in the matter. As it stands now, I am due to entertain a long line of suitors until you choose one or two or so which you think are truly viable candidates, while I wait for a chance to voice my own opinion on the subject. While I know you’d take my opinion as the last word — at least, for a few years — the selections would still be yours. Every potential future husband knows that the king and, to a lesser extent, the queen is the one to truly approach about these matters. I don’t want that. I want to do the selecting. I want the matter of my marriage to be entirely up to me.”

Nobody looks pleased at this. The lords gape at their king, ready for him to shut this down. Uncle Ned looks torn. “Sansa, I can’t just let you run off with whomever you want. There are factors in this—”

“—I am aware of that. And I of course would not marry anyone without your good opinion. And I am willing to promise you that whomever I choose will be of an appropriate rank and bloodline. I am not asking to run off with a handsome stablehand. I understand my responsibilities and do not intend to forget them. I just want to have some control in this one aspect of my life before I become queen.”

The king takes a deep breath. “If you were to promise that my permission would still be sought and honored… I suppose.”

There’s a collective gasp. Sansa weeps happy tears and runs to her father’s arms as if she were a girl of six again. Many of the advisors take surreptitious notes.

Gossip spreads throughout the court before long and soon, Sansa’s suitors become less formal, more familiar and openly flirtatious. Jon fumes even more than King Eddard. He is required, by his post, to watch as Patrek Mallister takes her for a ride through the Wolfswood, Willam Manderly walks her through the gardens, and Cley Cerwyn recites poems to her. The worst is when she smiles and flirts with them.

Things come to a head when, on a royal hunt, Ser Patrek decides to steal a kiss from his princess when he thinks no one is looking. Jon ends up knocking him off of his horse for his impudence. Sansa’s furious, though she waits until they’re alone in the solar to yell at him.

“I like him, and it is not your duty to protect me from gentle kisses from men I like!” She cries, angrily unweaving her hair from the large braid she donned that day. It’s distracting, seeing all those locks of hair fly free from their bind and cascade about her shoulders in a lush tangle.

Unable to take it anymore, Jon orders the servants from the room in a tone that leaves no room for argument. He waits until their footsteps die away, then marches up to Sansa, grabs her by the shoulders, and looks into her burning blue eyes.

“He has no business kissing you like that,” Jon growls at her, “He didn’t even put up a real fight. What kind of man wouldn’t bloody whomever got between himself and you? You know how I’d kiss you, if I could? I’d leave you gasping for air by the time I was finished. I’d taste every inch of your mouth. I’d leave your lips bruised as I seized your breasts and hips through your gown, ran my hands through that auburn hair of yours. If it were me out there today with you? You’d be squirming through your hunting greens. You’d be trying to tear them off yourself after two minutes, desperate to free your bosom to my touch, kicking off your boots, lifting up your skirts—-”

Sansa gasps.

Jon glares. “You wouldn’t have stayed on your horse very long. I’d have led us off behind some bushes and dragged you off your saddle. Thrown you up against a tree. I’d have gotten on my knees and burrowed under your skirts. Torn your stockings and smallclothes apart with my teeth so I could put my lips between your legs. You’d have to bite down on one of your gloves to keep from screaming as I played with your nub. And I’d play with it until you couldn’t stand anymore. I wanted to leave you desperate, begging me to fuck you. But I wouldn’t have.”

“Wh-what?!” She gapes.

Jon smirks. “Too great a risk. Far too much fun to make you get back on the horse, stocking and smallclothes gone beneath your skirts. Bare-legged and bare-arsed underneath. You having to go hours in those woods trying to keep anyone else from seeing your shame. Riding, hunting, smiling for your guests, trying desperately to think of anything but how badly you want my cock. You claiming a headache to get away early, knowing I’d have to follow. And the moment that door shut, you pouncing on me, trying to get us both naked, grinding against me. I might even have you return the favor I did you earlier and make you unlace my trousers and smallclothes with your teeth. You, kneeling in front of me, lace between your lips, eyes narrowed in impatience. I like to think that once I was free, you’d try to suck me. Would you, Sansa? Would you try to suck my cock?”

“I-I- I don’t know,” she stammers, face turning as red as her hair.

“I probably wouldn’t let you, anyways. Because I’d be as desperate as you, and I’d only be able to hang on so long. And I’d want to be inside your cunt long enough to feel you peak around me. I’d have you bent over your desk, bare-arsed, legs spread, cunny dripping, and absolutely impale you, go as deep as I can. Make you feel every inch of me from within. Maybe even release my seed within you just to know I had.”

She gasping now. He notices, and mentions it.

“Do you think one of your silly suitors could put you in a state like this with just words?” He demands. She shakes her head.

“But I suspected you could,” she gasps, “I’ve been waiting…”

“You like making me jealous, don’t you, Sweet Girl?”

She nods frantically. “As long as you’re not all talk…”

Jon growls again and lifts her, bridal style. He takes her past the threshold and throws her onto her blue velvet bedcover. The two of them shed their clothing hurriedly, and Jon wastes no time. She’s utterly gushing, he’s hard as the walls of Winterfell. He puts her on all fours and takes her from behind, reaching around her waist and teasing her nub as he thrusts in and out of her. She comes apart around him, calling his name. After that, he tries pulling out, but she looks over her shoulder into his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

That’s all he needs. He spills within her and collapses, nearly senseless.

It’s only when he comes to that he admires her properly. She reclines languidly, naked as her name day, all long limbs, glistening, porcelain skin, and lush curves. Jon cannot resist burying his faces in her perky, pink-tipped bosom. It’s only when his eye catches the smears of blood on his cock that it hits him.

“Seven Hells,” he says, sitting up, “Seven Hells, Sansa. It was your first time!”

“I told you I was a maid,” she says simply. “I wasn’t lying.”

“But I was so rough!” He was so consumed with his passion and jealousy, he hadn’t even thought- “Are you alright?”

Sansa laughs. “I ache a bit between the legs, but it’s a nice ache. Don’t you worry.” She leans forward and kisses his lips softly. “If there’s one thing being knocked to the ground has made me, it’s tough.”

Jon’s head swims. “Still, though… I’d never forgive myself…”

She looks at him thoughtfully. “Will you marry me?”

 


End file.
